The End of Scarecrow
by InkweaverMysteria
Summary: His name means nothing. His mind is fading. His past is returning to haunt him. The Scarecrow has taken it's tole on the former doctor. He hardly knows who he is anymore. Now someone has come to help him recover those lost memories. Memories that were never meant to be forgotten. Can Jonathan Crane survive the process to "recovery? More importantly, will the Scarecrow let him go?
1. Recaptured

Crane opened his eyes. The fogginess of the room had cleared and not a sound could be heard. The imposter batman was no longer beside him; Crane assumed he had somehow freed himself while he slept. Crane had tried several times, but nothing seemed to work. The only thing left to do was wait for the police to come and collect him, though he had been waiting for a long while. Too long, Crane thought. And how overly dull it was to sit on the floor, tied to the railing with no one around. He would even consider the imposter batman as company, at least to annoy him, to tell him off after failing to capture the notorious Scarecrow. Crane chuckled at the thought, but quickly returned to the reality of his situation.

This would go on for hours. He drifted in and out of sleep until he had the sudden urge to use the toilet. Being helplessly tied up, with no way of reaching such a place to relieve himself of the necessity anytime soon, he nearly took the second alternative. That was, until the screeching of tires came to his ears.  
They came fast, swerving up the ramp to his location like the driver's life depended on it. The tires carried a large, black van and only three passengers, but none of them were police. The first passenger to speak, a woman, remained in the van, unseen.

"Hurry, the cops will be here any minute." She said to the other two, both men dressed in all black. Crane almost spoke out the fact that he had been sitting there waiting for the cops for hours, with no expectancy of them coming at all, but before he could the two men grabbed a heavy hold of him and threw him in the back of the van with vicious force. They joined him a moment later and after the back doors closed, the van took off again.

He did not understand his situation, nor would he understand for the time being. When his mouth opened to ask where they were taking him, the man closest to him raised his fist and collided it into Crane's face. Instant darkness took over him and his mind retreated to small strips of his earlier dreams.


	2. Last Grip on Sanity

_She looked at him expectedly, those amber-green eyes staring up at him like it was the easiest thing in the world. He didn't say anything for a long time, he only stared back into those eyes; the one thing he would remember completely was the way he felt when he looked into them: calm and complete. He felt subjected under their soft gaze, like he could hide not even his deepest secrets. _

_She sighed and giggled a bit. The sound of her child-like voice made him smile. "You didn't answer me," she said, and he suddenly felt guilty for not listening to her. His full attention was on her now. He held her hands in his and slightly swung them back and forth.  
She continued to smile, wide and bright, but her words put a pain in his heart. "Why didn't you save me?" she asked so sweetly, and yet she was angry. He could now see it in her eyes. _

_His smile had all but vanished, and the joy in his heart disappeared. Then he realized, she wasn't really there at all. She was gone . . . he hadn't saved her._

* * *

Crane woke with a start. Sweat dripped from his forehead and his body trembled under the low light above him. It took a moment for his surroundings to come into focus, though there was not much there for him to see. His dreams now forgotten, Crane struggled to release himself of his new confinement to a metal chair. The past events began to clear themselves and he remembered how he had gotten there in the first place, though no one currently seemed to be around. Besides the constant _tick_ of a clock somewhere in the darkness, silence seized the area.

Just when Crane thought he would be stuck tied to a chair for the remainder of his life, a new sound caught his fully alert ears. The clamping sound of heels, possibly attached to an attractive pair of feet, or that of a cowboy boot. Either would have sufficed him if the person wearing them was indeed a woman. He toyed with the idea that she had somehow stumbled upon his whereabouts and was now coming to release him, but he had been wrong so many times before. And the wearer did not seem to be in any hurry. The footsteps were slow and hesitant, almost frightened. This intrigued him.

Crane called out to the approaching stranger, but no answer came back to him. He sighed and looked around for some way to defend himself if the situation called for it, but still nothing could be seen in the darkness. Even if he could see, his hands were bound to tightly to the arms of the chair, it would do him absolutely no good. He struggled, but not so much as to cause a stir.

The footsteps halted directly in front of him, on the other side of a table; he could see the edge of it under the light shining harshly down on him.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane," said the voice of a woman. "You've made quite a name for yourself these past couple years, especially recently." Her tone was strong, almost playful. He couldn't see her face, but he pictured her body language: standing straight up, arms crossed each other over her chest. Her voice was deep, yet she sounded young, like a woman who had matured too early for her age. He pictured her to be wearing some sort of business suit and a matching pencil skirt, like the ones the lovely Miss Dawes was so fond of wearing, but Crane knew this couldn't be her.

"What do you want?" Crane asked the woman. His expression was tired and tone annoyed. This amused her. She paced for a while in front of the table between them.

"What all the citizens of Gotham want . . . justice." She said, and stopped pacing. As Crane pondered on her meaning of the word 'justice', she went on. "You've done terrible things, Doctor. Things no sane person would ever commit, or even think of. What do you think that means?"

"Um, I don't know," Crane replied, sarcastically. "I guess it means I'm insane." There was a smile playing at the corner of his lips. She could see it, and it angered her.

She walked again, this time around the table near him, behind him. He tensed, but refused to let his fear show. "It would seem to be true." She told him, her warm breath now on the back of his neck. "But I know the truth."

"And, what would that be, exactly?"

"Corruption, Doctor Crane. That's all this ever was. A man may well loose his mind in a city so rotten, but not one as unique as yours. It may evolve, or adapt, but never disappear completely." She said this with something Crane did not recognize. Pain maybe, but not entirely. Pity, yet it seemed there was more that. Though her words intrigued him, now he could only wonder what she wanted with him. "One would wonder what went on in such a mind as yours."

Crane smiled. "Oh, if only you knew." He said.

The woman remained silent. Over time, Crane's smile disappeared and he sat puzzled at her refusal to respond. Then she finally sighed, but she seemed sad. Crane would not know, but she was sad and confused inside. Almost hurt. "If only . . ." she said. "If only the Jonathan I once knew could tell me."

She said this and walked back to the opposite side of the table, leaving Crane in a state of confusion. He said nothing in return. His mind had gone somewhere else as the woman stood studying him. For the most part, Crane's eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but he still could only see the figure of the woman before him, with no face to complete the puzzle. He sat in the chair, breathing slowly, staring at up at the woman with nothing but determination.

"Who are you?" he asked. No more games, he thought. If this woman was threatening him, or whatever this was supposed to be, he needed to know. It was pinning him against a wall, the realization of who this woman was and what she wanted, but the harder he tried to think the farther the answers pulled away him.

For a moment there was only silence. The longer it went on, the deeper his need to understand clawed at his sanity. At the edge of his patience, she finally responded, tossing something on the table. It _clanked_ against the metal frame and then came to rest in the center, directly under the light. It was small silver band, simple enough except for the carving of a cresset moon in the center, painted a deep blue. It sparkled up at him under the dim light. He could see it, but not as it was on the table. In the deep pools of forgotten memories in the back of his mind, he saw it placed on the delicate finger of a young girl.

_He was there with her. His eyes traveled from her hand, up her beautifully smooth arm, to her face, into the depths of her irises. They stared back at him, a wide smile stretching across her face. Deep, amber-green eyes._

Like that, the vision disappeared and Crane felt the bonds on his wrists and the darkness consumed him once more.

"I knew you would remember," the voice of the woman crept into his ears. Not a second after, Crane shot out of his numb state, glaring at the darkness. His ears burned with rage.

"Where did you get that?" his anger betrayed his attempt to keep a calm profile. At the moment he didn't care. The woman didn't answer. She turned from him; he could hear the spin of her heels against the cement. In all his rage, he screamed. "Answer me!"

The woman jumped. He knew because she had gasped, probably now holding her knuckle to her teeth to hold another in. She rubbed her hand against the fabric of her sleeve, from that he knew she was trembling, but she was not afraid of him.

"You've changed, Jonathan." She said finally. Her voice was small, almost too quiet for him to hear, but he did. The formalities had dropped; however, it seemed familiar coming from her. There was something strange about the way she said his first name. Like it was precious, yet it pained her inside. He could feel it.

"You were always changing, whether sceneries or plans," she went on, and Crane did not interrupt this time. He listened for any sense of a clue to finding out why he was there, why old events desperately wanted to be remembered by him, and who this woman was. Though, deep down, he already knew. "You could never stay put, I remember that.

My father hated change. He hated the idea of change, which is why he became a cop. When Gotham's state became worse, he wanted to help. That's all he ever wanted to do was help people. I use to want to be like him." She laughed slightly. "It's a silly thing for a little girl to want to be: to fight crime . . . to put people away for a long time."

Crane listened, wholeheartedly. That was it. Just like that, his mind could finally grasp the reality that his heart had already believed. He finally realized, no matter what doubts he had remaining, that this was the girl he had thought about, and dreamed about even after ten long years. It all became clear and yet, his mind flooded with more questions. He wanted to ask her everything . . .


	3. Believing in Ghosts

Crane stared, puzzled and numb at the woman in front of him. The light shined on her face now. She looked so different from the girl he remembered her to be. Her once golden hair was now a dirty blonde color, wavy in some places. Her skin was tanner than before, but it still seemed as soft as he recalled, and as he peered into the eyes he had only dreamed of for the past ten years, it all began to pour back to him. He remembered everything . . . but though he was filled with a piercing joy, something deep down angered him. A piece of him longed to lash out at her, and he didn't know why. For the moment, at least, he pushed it aside.

He breathed slowly, almost unable to make out any words. "I thought-"

"That I was dead." She finished for him. "I was. At least, after I returned and discovered what had happened. After I realized what you had done, I wished I had died. I wished I had kept the memory of you the way it was . . . to think Jonathan Crane, a boy I grew up with, a boy I loved, could be capable of such things. It was like waking up from a dream, only to be thrown into a nightmare. And then finding out about my father . . ." She stepped back away from the table, crossing her arms back over her chest. She looked on into the darkness, her mind drifting somewhere else, a place she longed she could return to, even though she knew it was impossible. "I told you not to go too far. I told you not to cross the line, and you promised you would keep your anger hidden . . . but you betrayed that trust." She reminded him, and he remembered. He said nothing in response, mostly because he didn't know what to say. "So I was dead," She went on. "Did you just call it good after I fell, and go home?" She turned back to him, small droplets of tears forming in her eyes. "Did you even look?"

"I looked for days." Crane assured her, and then he added, "Your father was the one who called off the search."

The look she gave him in return was stern, but he knew that she was surprised by the news. She sighed and paced back and forth in front of him, swaying her arms at her sides. He watched her, remembering the majority of the time they had spent together that she always did this when she was frustrated, mostly with him. Any remains of her coming tears had vanished, replaced with anger.

"Is that why you did it? Is that why my father is the way he is, because you couldn't contain your anger?" she asked, turning back to him.

Something changed in Crane then. The other part of him, the side that desperately wanted to show this woman just what kind of hurt he was capable of, suddenly appeared. It was a quick change, with no origin to trigger its appearance, but she could tell by the way his facial expression changed that someone completely different had taken a hold of him. Then she realized it was no longer Crane she shared gazes with. It was the Scarecrow.

He threw on a sarcastic smile, his eyes following her every move. "I assure you, I don't know what you're talking about," he said. In absolute rage, the woman turned on him, throwing her fists on the surface of the table. The loud bang rang in his ears, but he wouldn't show it bothered him.

"Don't lie to me, Crane! I know it was you! Who else could have had him transferred to Arkham? _Why_ else would someone want to send Gotham's lieutenant police officer - a good man - to his death?" She screamed. Crane's smile remained as he stared back into her eyes; they were filled with nothing but anger and pain. She had been betrayed by the only man who ever really cared for her. Not even her father cared as much as he had, Crane knew that.

Taking in a small breath, Crane leaned in to the table, furrowing his brows. "Now, I know even ten years can't possibly make you forget the kind of man your father was, Melanie." He said. His voice was low. It sounded different than usual; another element had had warped its way around it, deforming it - making it sound dark.

"My father was a good man. That's all anyone should remember of him, but because of you and your methods, no one will ever remember the truth."

"It all depends on what you call 'truth'. There are many who knew Cid for what he really was. He had created his own demons long ago. My methods merely brought his sickness out into the light." Crane informed her. Melanie felt ready to ram the table between them into Crane's chest. "The man you claim your father to be is a lie. The deal he made with Falcone is proof of that." He went on.

Melanie's eyes grew wide. "You're lying." It couldn't be true.

"Am I? Why would I have reason to?" Crane retorted.

"My father dedicated his life to putting men like Falcone behind bars."

"Your father devoted his time to beating a teenage girl as punishment for her falling in love."

Melanie winced at Crane's words. The truth of them stung her and for a moment she was too thrown back to respond. She stood still, running the old memories through her mind. When Crane saw her blank expression, words of protest ready to escape her lips, he continued his rant. "Do you want to know how he acted when you fell over that bridge, Melanie?" Melanie didn't answer. "He didn't mourn. He didn't care."

"Shut up," Melanie protested, too quietly for Crane to understand. Hot tears filled the corners of her eyes as he continued. She couldn't look at him.

"He went out looking for someone, the only person he could blame for what happened," Melanie swung her gaze back at him, eyes wide with disbelief. _No._ "He found the boy you were with that night, and he grabbed him, and beat him to a pulp, laughing the entire time." Crane was glaring at her, his gaze possibly drilling a hole between her eyes. "Did you hear me? He was laughing, _hysterically_! So don't tell me, Melanie Garner, that your father was a good man. That he dedicated his life to put thugs behind bars when you and I both know just what kind of man he was behind the badge."

"You sent Gotham to its very edge. How are you any different?" Melanie retorted, spreading her palms on either side of the table, leaning into it as she glared back at him. "So my father wasn't perfect, but how does that give you the right to use him in your sick game? To experiment on him like some kind of animal? How could –"

"It was much easier than you think." Crane replied, a hint of his sarcastic smile returning. For a moment, Melanie held in her anger, and then she stood and swung the back of her hand across his face. He turned at the force of it and remained there for nearly a whole minute. She watched as his cheek slowly progressed toward a cherry color, waiting for him to meet her eyes again. When he did, his smile was gone – she half expected him to start laughing.

For a moment at least, Melanie could have sworn she saw an indication of the old Crane return in his eyes. He stared up at her without anger, without fear, or annoyance. What she hoped she saw was sympathy. And then, like that, it was gone, and Crane cocked his head slightly to the side, waiting for her to continue. She nearly slapped him again. Instead, she took a deep breath and steadied her lingering anger. That's when he smiled.  
"The boy from that night is never coming back," he said. Though it had nearly dispersed, Melanie could feel her insides boil once more. "The world as it is has opened his eyes. There's a bigger picture out there."

Melanie furrowed her brows, nodding in a is-that-a-fact kind of way. "Money? Sovereignty? The Scarecrow would get these things for you." It wasn't a question. She knew all too much of his alter ego, enough to last her a lifetime. "The Scarecrow isn't real! It's a role you created to play your silly game to pollute Gotham, to strike fear in the hearts of every known man, woman, and child. You would watch as they tore the city apart, and for what? Ransom money? Maybe Ra's al Ghul failed to mention the part of the plan when there would be no one left to ransom." Crane remained silent. He knew that now, but during the attack, he remained oblivious through the whole thing. He suddenly wondered how Melanie knew so much about it. She went on. "You would be the cause of more murders and mayhem than all the criminals of Gotham could commit all together." She stared at him intensely. He only stared back, those piercing blue eyes she had once wished to see again.

"Aren't you going to ask, why?" Crane asked, becoming a bit annoyed by her. He was surprised when she smiled and shook her head.

"No." She said. "And, you're right. The Jonathan I knew ten years ago is gone, but that doesn't mean he isn't out there somewhere."

Crane almost felt like laughing. Was she serious? "You can't save me, Melanie." He assured her, but that still didn't seem to faze her.

"Oh, I don't plan to." She said. And then she stood straight and turned from him. "I told you before I'm here for justice, Crane. For all the lives you nearly destroyed, including mine." and with that, she walked away, back into the darkness. He listened as her footsteps faded from his ears. After that, there was only the silence.

The same clock _ticked_ over and over again as he sat, still tied to the metal chair. It was driving him crazy. Was this her idea of revenge? He hoped not, but then again it would be sort of effective. That was until the light switched itself off. Crane tensed in the newly darker blackness of the area. And then, seconds after, two pairs of heavy arms came down on him, ripping him directly out of the chair. He didn't scream, or yell for help. He simply waited to see what was happening as the two large men carried him through the darkness. It wasn't until one man went to open a door and they both threw him inside that Crane began to panic.

There was a room behind the door, white with patted walls. Hanging in the corner was a straight jacket, and he backed away from it as far as he could before the two men grabbed him again. Crane struggled to get away, but he knew it was no use as they forced him in the straight jacket, throwing him back down on his face. He tried his best to turn back over. He wanted to see the two men's' faces. He would not get the privilege; the two men were both wearing masks, both similar to the Scarecrow mask he had gotten so use to wearing. When the realization of his situation finally hit him, Crane shot up to his feet and attempted to run.

"No!" he screamed when they caught him at the door, throwing him back. They were both laughing. He almost demanded them to stop when he heard a hissing sound. Gas began to seep into the room. One man closed the door and then other rose Crane to his feet as the room filled with Crane's own Fear Toxin. He tried holding his breath, but he would not be able to forever. _Nice call, Melanie,_ Crane thought to himself as the gas crept into his lungs. It wasn't long before Melanie could hear his screams echoing through the old garage to her bedroom on the second floor.

Small tears rolled down her face. She didn't bother to wipe them away. She didn't bother to do anything. She lied alone on her bed. She felt disoriented, lost, and confused. _This is what he deserves,_ she thought to herself. She grinned her teeth together without even realizing it; a habit she had picked up from her father. _He has done to this to so many others, to families, to children!_ Melanie continued to rant within herself that Crane's punishment was justification, but the longer she heard his screams go on, the guiltier she felt. She brought her hands over each of her ears to block out his cries.

_He's wrong!_ she wailed in her mind. _The old Jonathan is still there. I know it. I can find him. I have to. After . . . after this is over, I'll find a way – someway – to make him better._


	4. Turning the Handle

Three days and Melanie could no longer stand it. Though her head ached for him to suffer, her heart ached to only hold him. She wanted to go to him, to forgive him and let the past be past, but even as his screams haunted her dreams she still did nothing. She couldn't. When her feet carried her to his cell, she only stood there, paralyzed. And once, her hand had fallen on the handle of the large metal door, but she dared not turn it. Even if she wanted to let him go, his fate was no longer in her hands.

Malcolm and Kirby would not allow his release in a hundred years. The two men, both hired by Melanie, hated the former doctor more than anything in Gotham. They wanted him to pay for what he had done, for what each man had lost due to his wicked schemes. They loved to torture him, to see him coward in fear as so many others had. They truly wanted him to suffer . . . But Melanie did not.

A particular night, one much colder than the others, shortly after their 'sessions' had ended, Melanie woke from a horrific nightmare. She sprung up from the bed, clenching tightly to the blankets. She could hardly breathe or contain her tears. She looked around the dark room until she was certain Crane was not there. Then, she wept. She held her face in clammy, shaking hands as the hot tears poured from her face. The building was quiet; she knew Kirby and Malcolm had left some time ago, so no one would hear her as she cried. No one but Crane . . .

She wept even more when her mind drifted back to times much simpler than this. When she could cry in his arms, and he would hold her even hours after her tears had sunk into her soft skin. Melanie wrapped her arms around herself, wishing there was someone else with her. But there was no one, and she knew there was no way she could allow Crane to touch her again, even if her heart longed for him: his smell, his warmth, his piercing blue eyes staring at her as if swimming in her soul. Oh, how she had missed him! But, she was certain he had not missed her. Scarecrow made that much clear to her.

Scarecrow.

Melanie had witnessed his true face the other day, and it was an event she wished she would never have to experience again. The thought of what Crane had turned into, the sudden change in his face sent chills threw her body. His eyes, his bright, blue eyes had grown dark, almost gray, and Melanie could plainly see the wickedness seeping from them. And when he smiled . . .

Melanie jumped back to reality when a loud bang caught her ears. From the corner of her room, a small mouse had knocked over one of her many picture frames sitting on top of an old dresser. The glass shattered, scaring the tiny creature back into its hole in the wall. Melanie got up and ran to the picture frame now lying on the floor. The picture, one of her mother and her as an infant, was still intact. She sighed and traveled to the other end of the room and grabbed a small shoe box under her bed.

The shoe box was old. She obtained it nearly eleven years ago on her fourteenth birthday, though the shoes that belonged to it had long been worn out. Inside it now were old pictures and newspaper articles. Before putting the picture of her mother and her inside, she decided to dump the contents of the box on her bed and go through it; it'd been a while.

The object on top of the pile was an old article, the one that announced her disappearance ten years ago. Ten years, she thought. It was such a long time. She couldn't believe after all that time outside the city that she had finally returned to Gotham, only to find everything she had left behind - gone. She couldn't believe it, but Morla had been right all along.

Morla was the woman who saved Melanie from her fate, and she was thankful for that, but the ten years she remained captivated by the shaman woman was no paradise. Melanie often thought of the old woman, sometimes with smiles, sometimes with anger, but never could she return. Morla would kill her for running away...

Shaking away those thoughts, Melanie returned to the pile on her bed. There were several old pictures of her and her parents and several newspaper clips regarding the works of Gotham police, including her father. It was when Melanie read an article concerning her father's residential status in Arkham Asylum that she regained the desire to return. That specific article was more worn than the others, as was one particular picture. This picture was of her and her best friend, a boy she had grown to love. Tears came to Melanie's eyes as she looked over the two smiling friends until her vision was too blurry to make out either of their faces. Both friends had changed so much; two completely different people. It hurt her to think of him again.

Through the ringing in her ears, Melanie could hear a different sound in the darkness. It was muffled and quiet, but there was no mistaking it was coming from down stairs. Melanie turned on her bed and stared down the metal stairs just outside the window-like door leading to the floor below. She slowly got up, gripping her white robe tightly together and tiptoed toward the sound; though Kirby and Malcolm weren't there to hear her, she still felt the need to silence her steps just in case of an intruder.

On the cold cement of the first floor, through the darkness of the garage, Melanie could make out the sound. It was a voice, though still muffled enough she couldn't detect whose. Quietly stepping into the darkness, she wondered around to find the origin, until a few more noises came to her ears. Someone was banging on the walls.

It occurred to Melanie then the noises were coming from Crane's cell. The closer she got to it confirmed her accusation. She sighed in relief, but before she turned to return to her room, she stood beyond the door and listened to what Crane was saying to himself. Then she realized, he wasn't talking - he was singing.

She could have smiled, if not for the fact that she was standing outside a room with a highly disoriented man contained inside. Still, she leaned against the door to listen (There was a bit of vibration in the door, and Melanie realized he was slightly banging his head against it). "Sing me to sleep," she heard him sing, though it pained her inside. Through his voice, low and muffled, she could detect an abundance of sadness. This deep inflicted pain rang through the words as he sang them over and over, but just the once phrase, as if he had forgotten the rest of the song. Melanie could hardly contain her tears. Then, after a moment, Crane grew louder and his tone grew angry and raw. He stopped singing altogether, and then – he screamed. Melanie jumped at his sudden outburst. Not a second later, she jolted back from the door when she heard a loud thud on the other side; he had rammed himself into the metal door, probably as an attempt to escape. Another thud caught her ears soon after, this one sounding as if Crane had fallen over. And then, there was only silence.

Melanie stood completely paralyzed. She was terrified, too confused to act on just her feelings. She needed to be certain that he wasn't possibly faking. After all, she had ordered her two 'thugs' to dilute the toxin within Crane after every session with the vials they collected containing the cure for the hallucinogen. If that were so, why would he be acting in such a way?

Melanie sighed and stepped forward. The cell remained so silent, even the sound of her breath felt as loud as hammers against a railway and the slight brush of her fingers against the door handle screamed as a banshee in her ears. In that moment of stillness, between the time of touching the handle and turning it, Melanie took in a large breath as the world started to spin around her. Any regrets of this moment or consequences she would surely face in the future slipped her mind as the large door creaked open.


End file.
